


Sk8er Boi

by Razzbury_Writes



Series: DreamNotFound Fics :) [3]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Angst with the smallest bit of fluff except not really, Ballerina!George, Ballet, Band, But like not a lot of it, Cigarettes, Drugs, Exes, Homophobia, I don't know what else to tag this as, Internalized Homophobia, It's a group band, Lead Singer, M/M, Mentions of Panic Attacks, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Parental Abuse, Rock Band, Skateboarding, Skater boy!Dream, Skating, Smoking, Songfic, Their love wasn't enough I guess, Unrequited Love, Verbal Abuse, Weed, alcoholic parents, dream x george, dreamnotfound, mcyt - Freeform, mentions of past physical abuse, what do you expect to come?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:14:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29311668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Razzbury_Writes/pseuds/Razzbury_Writes
Summary: He was a boy,He was as well,It could be a little more obvious-Or: George is a ballet dancer and has a little crush on Dream, the guy he always sees skateboarding across the street from his dance studio. Despite the feeling being mutual, George's home life and views get in the way, leading into a parting that would haunt them both for what seems like forever. A few years later, they meet again in a setting neither had dreamed of, but nothing is or ever will be the same. Just as George accepts himself for who he is, he has to move on.Song-fic based off of Avril Lavigne's song "Sk8er Boi".
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: DreamNotFound Fics :) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2197128
Comments: 6
Kudos: 43





	Sk8er Boi

**Author's Note:**

> Both George and Dream have stated that they are okay with shipping and writing about them, but if they ever express otherwise I will not hesitate to take this down! That being said, if any content creator featured is uncomfortable with this, please let me know so I can remove it!
> 
> This fic will take place in the 2000's. All places in this story are made up and used for story line and fictional purposes(the street the first part takes place on, George's studio, the skatepark, the school, etc.)
> 
> PLEASE read the tags, this work will include: Use/mentions of alcohol, drunkenness, drugs and cigarettes, strong language, verbal abuse, mentions of past physical abuse, homophobia, mentions of suicidal thoughts, and (mentions of) panic attacks. Please do not read if you are not comfortable with these things.
> 
> Please note that this is all fiction and in no way am I trying to act like these events take place in real life. Everything here is a story, and made up for entertainment purposes! I also tweaked the meaning of the song and it's lyrics a little bit to make it flow better.
> 
> Check out Avril Lavigne's song "Sk8er Boi", which this is based off of! With that, enjoy the fic!

**Chapter One.**

**Friday; September, 2000.**

**London; Airedell Lane.**

Light peered so expertly through the large stretch of the front window, casting a marvelous ray of sunshine across the polished maple flooring, giving the hardwood a surreal shimmer in the afternoon glow.

Cream colored walls stood tall and proud in the front-most practice room. All but one of the three that did not house the glass held shimmering mirrors—that being the back and left sides. Wooden bars hung from the middle of each partition, bolted in carefully so that those who may stretch across them would not get harmed in the process.

White—nearly grey due to the vast amount of time that they had stood in place—pillars stretched up in all four corners, lunging forward to connect with the ceiling. They were similar to the larger ones that would reach for the sky outside of the building, flanking the front entryway.

If the far-from-basic architecture wasn't enough to sweep someone off their feet, then the way music would fill the air seconds after entering would surely take their breath away. The irresistible sounds of classical tunes and slow dances would swarm around anybody, pulling them into a trance that wouldn't be broken until long after each song would end.

The room stretched evenly, leaving much space for one to glide about, haphazardly swaying to the calming sounds that came from the surrounding speakers, or moving with precision and calculated moves. The place was well known for both.

Today, the melody that floated in the welcoming atmosphere was that of an old Chopin piece. The tones held just enough meaning to impact each and every pirouette and chassé performed by the row of students.

One specific boy—a brunet with soft fluffy hair, a fine form though smaller figure, and quite an ear for music—seemed to be affected the most by the themes that would ring out to him throughout the room. Every leap seemed to be fueled with some grand knowledge and comfort that only the sounds could bring.

After completing a specific sequence in front of the small group of his fellow peers, a minute clap broke through to him between the sounds of slippers gliding against flooring and chords playing through speakers.

Music; dance.

This was his escape. These familiar floors and these oak bars; the way the music sounded in the compact room; the way his dance shoes felt as he twirled and hopped around.

"Very good, George. I see that you have practiced quite a lot in your free time." Beaming up at his teacher, George gave a soft smile accompanied with a curt nod. He _had_ been practicing. Ballet was something he held close, as much as he resented the reasoning on why he picked it up in the first place.

"Darryl, I would like you and George to each take two of the ladies and work on partner routines together. Please take half of the room each, and come to me with any issues that may arise." Mr. Harris—a rather stout old man with fading grey hair and glasses always perched at the very tip of his nose, as if they were just about to fall off but never did—directed. With haste, the two males of the class complied, slipping into their easily recognizable pattern.

George would take the front of the room—the one near the window that held a grand view of the road and the skate park across the street, and Darryl would take the opposing side—the one holding the largest mirror used to view all angles of whatever moves you were doing in that moment.

Ballet and song. Those were the two things that George could look forward to if he needed a break from everything else that the world could throw at him— _would_ throw at him. With his portable mp3 player secured in his bag, playlists full of classics and pop alike, and his pair of pointe shoes always tucked away next to it, he would be ready to tackle any day.

"Your form is coming along nicely, Niki," George complimented one of the girls he was currently dancing with, both pairs of feet moving in time. Their class was small, a group of only six—four females and two males. While it caused an uneven balance, they all made it work. The addition of being the highest ranking members in the prestigious ballet school helping this fact.

"Why thank you, George. I must say the same about you, as well." The brunet smiled, glancing across the room to watch as Darryl danced away with a spunky yet all too entertaining member of their little ballet group. Sometimes they would joke around about how Minx should have been across the way at the skatepark, rather than cooped up in the confinement of the homey dance studio. But she would always insist that no matter how she may seem, dance was something she held a passion for, something everybody here understood greatly.

After taking on his second partner and fixing her positioning so that she held her arms in the right place at the end of the routine, George let himself glance up at the bronze clock that hung above the exit. Mr. Harris took note of this, waiting for Darryl's group to finish up, before bringing them all together in a form of dismissal.

"You all did very well today. Remember that the studio is always open for individual practice, but our next group session will be Monday." And with that, George was already making his way to the door, exiting quickly in order to reclaim his bag from the male changing room.

While music and dancing was his life, George still looked forward to other things. And if one of those "things" happened to be a certain run-in with a specific blond boy who spent his own free time just across the road skating, then so be it. Not that he would ever admit to that, of course.

"Are you walking over to the park today?" A voice asked George, and he looked up to see Darryl walking into the room, letting the door close halfway behind him. There was nobody else there at that time on Monday's, and they weren't doing anything but situating their belongings so shutting it fully wasn't at the top of his priorities.

"Yeah, might as well if you are," George hummed out in reply, removing his shoes with care and replacing them with a pair of faded Chuck Taylor's. He would never say anything, but while spinning around the room near the window, he had already made up his decision about making his usual swing-by. Seeing a recognizable man riding a skateboard into his peripheral vision may have eased his choice a tad bit as well.

"So you know who's over there today?" Darryl asked, sitting besides George on the bench and changing into his own pair of high tops. Shrugging, the brunet put away his dance slippers and zipped up his backpack. The two of them would always stop by the park to watch the people skate about. It seemed fun, though they both knew painfully well that they were not fit for anything like it. That's why they spent their time on the other side of the walkway, creating the art that is dance.

"I don't know, I haven't checked," George lied, standing up from the bench and walking to the door. He opened it all the way and stepped to the side, allowing Darryl to get up and exit before him. The two left the establishment side-by-side.

"Mhm, sure. I saw you stealing hopeful glances out the window, I know you were looking." George rolled his eyes, smacking his friend's shoulder with the back of his hand, yet making no move to deny the statement. For an early autumn day, it was relatively warm out. He brought his hand away from Darryl's shoulder in order to shield his eyes from the light shining down onto where they stood on the pavement. George followed the other boy across the quiet stretch of asphalt, not bothering to turn his head and check for incoming vehicles.

The skatepark that resided across the street from Blues Dance—the company both males took lessons from—was old and rundown. Everywhere you looked you could see graffiti—both new and old, cracked wooden benches, and trash littering the perimeter.

But, in a way, it also had its charm. While being a tad bit worn from the long years it had been used throughout, the park was still a hot-spot for teens and young adults alike. With a large stretch of different half pipes and ramps, handrails and stairs, it would be a lie if one were to call it outdated.

In a way, George supposed, this park was a lot of people's own release from the real world and responsibilities, much like dance was to him. Though he couldn't see how somebody could prefer riding a four-wheeled piece of wood down a steep slope over ballet, it all had to do with one's preference.

Darryl led George to their normal spot—a secluded bench that was kept under a large awning, holding a perfect view of the skatepark in its entirety—and the two took their usual seats. George crossed his legs in front of him, pulling them onto the wood while he placed his bag in the center of them. Rummaging through the few books that were kept in there, he moved aside his shoes and pulled out his mp3. Darryl, by knowledge of their normal routine, unzipped a pouch in his own book bag to extract a pair of earbuds.

"I get to pick the playlist today, your taste in music sucks," Darryl joked in a serious tone, raising a single eyebrow as he offered the headphones over. George rolled his eyes and stuck out his tongue slightly, connecting the buds and handing over the right one.

With little reluctance, he passed the device over right after, knowing that he had chosen the mix their last time.

After selecting one he knew both of them would enjoy, Darryl hit play and they both sat back as they let the modern music fill their ears. George watched as his friend pulled out a large book, flipping through the contents and giving him enough room to peer over his shoulder. Upon realizing that it was just a mathematics book, George leaned back into the bench and let his eyes wander.

From where they were seated, he knew exactly where everything was. All he had to do was shift his eyes to the left from the stairs and there was the mini ramp, which a boy who had his back to George flew down. His eyes trailed across all of the people currently zipping around; a ravenette whose white headband whipped behind him in the wind, both hands raised into the air as if celebrating his last move; a boy with fluffy brown hair and a colorful shirt cheering the former on; two younger males who were polar opposites, crouched in the corner with a pair of rollerblades and a skateboard between them—it looked like they were swapping rides out of sight from another brunet who sported a hazy beanie, who George knew to be the sparky blond's older brother after visiting the park on multiple occasions.

And then there was another man who whirled by, what he knew was a neon green and black board underneath his feet as he stopped and kicked it up into his hands. His dirty blond hair seemed brighter in the sunlight, indicating that he must have been out here for quite a while before the two danseurs arrived. George admired his style—his slightly baggy and ripped pants that were folded up at the ends, the oversized dark green shirt with a black smile stitched into the front, the black belt and two silver chains pulling together the look at his midsection. He doubted that he could pull off something like that, but on Clay it looked good.

 _More_ than just good, even.

Maybe he was caught staring, or maybe they were just known throughout the park well enough that their visits were anticipated, but whatever the reason may be, Clay was now turned and staring directly at him. After turning around and waving over two of his friends, he started making his way towards the slightly-shaded place where Darryl and George currently sat.

"Well if it isn't my favorite ballerina." George scoffed, rolling his eyes as the skaters approached. Glancing around Clay, George could see the ravenette he knew as Nick wave over the colorful boy—Karl—who was grinning from ear-to-ear.

"I'm here too, Clay," Darryl teased, taking out his earbud and pausing the music. George did the same, placing it in his lap as the trio finally gathered around their bench.

"Please, if you want affection we'll just have to wave Zak over," Nick joked back easily, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder to where a guy with jet-black hair was doing a wallride near the back of the park, conversing with another man in baggy red clothes and braided pink hair. Karl laughed, shoving Nick in the side who responded by shoving him back, albeit harder.

Clay lifted a finger before moving away from the small group wordlessly, leaving his skateboard on the ground while he jogged away. Humming, George uncrossed his legs in order to lean down and move the discarded board towards him to act as a footrest. Nick snickered and Darryl poked his side, making George flinch back slightly at the sensitive touch.

"Don't get too comfy, Clay will want that back," Darryl alluded, to which George just shrugged. He followed the golden boy with his eyes, past all of the other distractions this place held; the others skaters, the many ramps and rails, the sounds of loud music being pumped through somebody's radio somewhere. He watched as Clay easily jogged across the cement, reaching the other side of the park in minutes and slipping behind a broken and graffitied wall.

George knew that it was where he and the others kept their belongings, but he couldn't help but wish they wouldn't hide away so far from his and Darryl's bench. The almost longing way he stared after Clay didn't go unnoticed by the group, it _never_ did. George and Clay held a complicated relationship, always dancing on the edge of acquaintances to friends to something else that was kept locked up that neither held a key for. Every so often, one of their toes would slip over the line that would separate each title, the atmosphere slipping with it.

Not Clay nor George knew what the other considered them as—Were they friends? They never really talked outside of the park and occasionally school, so would that just make them hallway buddies? Someone you knew enough to greet but didn't really know at all?—though both silently wished that whatever it was, it would be mutual. Communication wasn't really George's forte, so he was content with keeping things the way they were.

Calm, cool, rational, friendly.

Painfully platonic? _No, it's as it should be._

Clay poked his head back out from behind the stone, hopping from a ledge with three bags—one over each shoulder and the other in his right hand. George felt his lips curl up into a small smile as he made eye contact with him. The dirty blond grinned right back, continuing the light pace he had set earlier.

"Aw sick, you got our shit!" Nick's voice broke through George's trance, and he sat up straighter, absentmindedly rolling the scuffed board underneath his converse back and forth. He watched as Clay rolled his foggy green eyes, coming to a stop next to Karl. He handed the vibrant boy his bag, which was a light purple and neon green, and settled for tossing Nick his flame patterned one.

"Mhm yeah, you're welcome," He responded with a smirk, moving to unzip one of the green pouches on the side of his own bag. He crouched down, knees cracking at the movement, and placed the bag on the ground as he continued to rummage. "Like my board, Georgie?"

George exhaled slightly, eyes fixed on the top of Clay's head, watching as he nodded it up and down to the nearly-deafened tunes being played from the other side of the park. "Depends. If I say yes do I get to keep using it as a footrest?"

Clay chuckled, rolling back so that he was sitting on his heels. From the bag, he had pulled out three bottles of Coca-Cola, and set them all on the ground.

"Maybe it does, maybe it doesn't." Clay wiggles his eyebrows at George, eliciting a giggle to slide past his lips. It's a pleasant sound, one he wouldn't mind hearing more often. Clay reached down, opens his own bottle and tips it back to take a large sip. Gesturing with his other hand, he asks, "Want one?"

George hums, reaching forward to pick up a bottle. Karl and Nick clasp their hands together at the same time, first in a lovey-dovey mocking way, but then quickly changing into a " _Wait, there's only one bottle left now, it's going to have to be a fight to the death for it_." Clay seems to notice this, and quickly snatches up the last bottle, holding it away from the two other teens.

"Darryl, this one is for you," he spoke with a smile, more insisting than offering as he shoved it into the other dancer's face. With a grin, he took it and popped the cap off without any hesitation, making sure to swirl the contents of the glass container slowly, like he was rubbing it in to Karl and Nick.

"Clayy," Nick pouted, crossing his arms over his chest. "Where's _our_ drink?" Clay just chuckled, handing over his own bottle with a small smile.

"Here, I don't want it anyway." He then hovered back over his old bag, pulled out a two dollar bill, and handed it to Karl. "You go get whatever you want from the vending machine, my treat."

Cheering as if he had come out victorious in some unknown competition, Karl lifted his arms up into the air, punching at nothing. After leaning down to sway Clay's shoulders a couple of times, he left the group and ran off towards the back entrance of the park, where two broken down vending machines were sat. It was a miracle those things were still regularly stocked, let alone able to work all together.

Clay sighed, leaning over so that he could rest his forehead on George's knee. The ballet dancer rolled his eyes, resting the hand that wasn't holding his Coke on top of his mess of dirty blond locks. The ancient green and black board rocked back and forth under George's feet at a steady tempo.

Back and forth, back and forth.

"I should get going, I need to finish up on that darn English assignment we were given last week." Darryl spoke up, stretching out his arms, gathering his bag up. Muttering he added, "This is what I get for putting it off."

George nodded slowly, weaving his fingers through Clay's slightly greasy hair once-over before taking away his hand. Clay shifted his head so that he could look up into the cocoa-brown eyes that were George's. He knitted his brows together as if he were in thought, watching intently as the Brit opened his mouth to speak.

"I'm gonna head out too. I don't want to stay out too late in case—" he paused, cutting himself off with a frown and an almost unnoticeable side-eye glance towards Darryl, who just nodded solemnly at the nonverbal remark. "I'll see you guys later though? Next Monday?"

It was funny, really. As often as the danseurs would come over to the skate park—which was nearly everyday after their ballet classes and private sessions—they all fell into an unspoken routine. George and Darryl would walk across the vacant black street of Airedell Lane, go through the gateless entrance, and take their spot on their normal rustic bench. Sooner or later, Clay and the others would come up to them and hang out before the two proper boys needed to head on home.

"Actually, I'm gonna head home early too," Clay decided, looking towards Nick who just shrugged, taking a small swig of the soda in his hand.

George nodded, pushing off of the board to send it rolling away from his feet. Clay took the hint, sticking out his tongue at the smiling teen and standing up to retrieve it. As he did so, George and Darryl stood, bags hanging loosely off of each of their shoulders.

"Thank you for the Coke, Clay," Darryl said with a smile, George nodding in agreeance. With one foot, he kicked at the loose grey pebbles covering the ground near their normal meeting spot.

"Was nothing," Clay urged. With a few parting words and a nod from Nick who grabbed Karl and his own board to skate back off and find the other brunet, the remaining three made their way towards the exit. The sun was slowly inching its way towards the horizon, and the sky seemed to burst aflame, spreading out its pallet of colors, painting over the soon-to-be dark and dreary night sky in a way that would be simply impossible to describe with these black and white words.

People take things for granted, really. Sunsets and sunrises, laughter and that sense of contentedness that rushes over you like a lazy wave on a midsummer evening, your friends. Always make sure to look out for the latter.

George and Darryl lived in opposite directions from the little street they spent so much time on, so at the gate they had to part. After a quick hug, a reminder about Monday's class, and a wave, Darryl started stalking off with a skip in his step. George turned to Clay with a raised eyebrow, eyeing the skater questioningly.

"What? Don't want me to walk you home?" He asked with a grin, carrying on in the general direction of George's house. He threw his hands in his pockets, turning around so that he could maintain eye contact as he walked backwards. George huffed, rolling his shoulders back to change the positioning of his bag, before starting off after him.

"Well, I never said _that_ ," he replied with a smirk matching Clay's. He shoved the half-empty glass bottle towards Clay, who took it with a raised eyebrow. "Hold it." Clay nodded his head, waiting for George to come up besides him so that they were walking in time. George pulled his bag from his shoulder, shuffling around a bit before coming back up with something in his palm. After putting the backpack back on and retrieving his drink, he held out his hand to Clay.

In it was a single earbud that was connected to George's little mp3 (which he had "accidently" forgotten to give back to Darryl, but he wouldn't mind). He let out a heavy little chortle, accepting the offer and popping in the bud. Soft classical music came through it, filling Clay's ears. He wrinkled his nose, facing George as they continued on side-by-side.

" _This_ is what you call music?" He joked, jabbing a finger lightly into George's side almost accusingly. He laughed in a way that was full of a certain warmth and life, drawing people—drawing _Clay_ —in. It was quite a beautiful thing, really, meshing well with his calming outer disposition.

It's a familiar walk home with a familiar feeling buried down below any sense of courage deep in both boys' bellies. By the time they're turning a corner, shoulders brushing and earbuds still in, the sun has fully set, the only light filtering through the darkness being that of soft moon rays.

George's house is nothing to ogle at, really. Nobody would bat an eye at the confined one-story building he called home, despite how little it felt like one. Clay had never been inside, in fact, George had never even allowed him to come up to the doorstep, in fear he would find out too much. Nobody knew except Darryl, and George wanted to keep it that way.

No sense in bothering somebody he hardly knew with his own selfish problems.

And so, as George retracted the earbuds and bid Clay farewell, they both stood together, close, in front of the barren house, faces illuminated by the gentle yellow streetlights, neither wanting to move. A small wave, tug at his backpack, and turn of his back is all that George allows to follow the moment, praying that the house would be empty.

He stopped at his front door knowing damn well it would be open—his parents never cared enough to properly secure the house, the only locks kept were on the cellar door, because their precious booze was more important than the life of their son—but yet pretended to fiddle around in his bag for a set of keys. Once he was sure that the sound of a board dropping to the ground, wheels against the crooked sidewalk had passed, he pressed a hand against the doorframe and shoved his way inside.

Alcohol, weed, smoke.

That was all that his nose was greeted with when entering, and to be quite honest, he was used to the scent by now. Absentmindedly, he rose a hand to his side, dragging his gaze back and forth across the room. It appeared that his parents were not home—most likely out buying more shit to stink up the house and get high off of—and he let out a gracious sigh.

Quickly, he sidestepped the shards of broken, murky green glass and thrown-about chairs to hurry down the hallway. His room was the only place in the house that didn't reek. It was small, but it was a (semi) safe space.

A small twin sized bed pressed up against one corner of the wall, a wooden desk with chipped paint sitting across from it, a worn office chair (that used to be his father's) slotted haphazardly up against it. He had a dresser, lamp, cassette player, and bookshelf accommodating the rest of the space. It wasn't much, but he made it his own.

George hung up his book bag on the back of his door, making sure it was firmly shut before doing so, of course. On the walls hung polaroid's of him with Darryl and ballet trophies he had won through many various competitions, the first one dating all the way back to when he was only seven.

His mood dropped at the sound of a door opening, and then slamming shut again soon after. A few loud noises and a yelp could be heard through the thin walls. George opted for turning on his cassette player, popping in one of the few cassettes he owned, letting the music swim around him much like how it did at the studio.

Only this music didn't uplift him like it did there, surrounded by the people he really and truly loved. Here, it only reminded him of his position, the shout filtering over the music enhancing that point.

But still, as George sat down at his desk, turning on his dinky little light to finish up his schoolwork that would be due soon, he felt everything about the music—the beat and rhythm, pitch and intonation, the feeling and counting—and danced along to it in his head.

Because if anything got him through the day, it was dance and music.

He wouldn't let himself seek comfort in a person. Wouldn't let himself fall no matter how much it hurt him.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been planning this out for a while, so it feels good to finally release it. Think of this as a teaser chapter, for I will be focussing on my other works before picking this up on a steady schedule. Until then, get ready to buckle down for things to heat up a bit. Enjoy the fic!
> 
> \- Razz


End file.
